


A Long December

by sev313



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/sev313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corey Crawford didn’t have a cup hangover.  Probably because he didn’t win a Stanley Cup.  What he is having, however, is what he might call a sophomore slump.  Arguably.  If pressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long December

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OpheliaRising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpheliaRising/gifts).



> Takes place between December 8, 2011 and December 18, 2011, in the middle of a sixteen-day stretch in which Corey Crawford did not start a game for the Chicago Blackhawks.

Corey Crawford didn’t have a cup hangover. Probably because he didn’t win a Stanley Cup. What he is having, however, is what he might call a sophomore slump. Arguably. If pressed. The media has been kind enough not to call it that, yet, but Corey isn’t young enough to be naïve. He knows how the game works. He knows that after a spectacular rookie season, this could go only one of two ways. He _wants_ it to go the way of the greats, of Tony Esposito, Ken Dryden, Patrick Roy. He doesn’t let himself think about the other possibility.

The problem is, Corey spends the bulk of the Islanders game thinking about not-thinking about it. He tries to focus on other things, like the little drop of sweat dripping down his neck from warm-ups or the cold pooling in the small of his back, where his pants and shoulder pads don’t meet. He shivers, even more uncomfortable thinking about that than the other thing and he sighs. He hates sitting on the bench. It’s cold, really cold, and his fingers tingle and sting unpleasantly when he slips his hand out of his blocker to open the door for a change. And, his sister denied it when he told her about it, but he knows he looks ridiculous dressed in full equipment minus-helmet, like his head is too small. He imagines he looks something like a misshapen bobble head, like those little replica Tazers they hand out on fan appreciation night.

There’s a bang on the door and Corey looks up to see Duncs and Seabs leaning against the boards, breathing heavily and looking much too far into the third period to climb the boards if they don’t have to. Corey rushes to open the door, banging his finger against the handle and swearing under his breath. Seabs collapses onto the bench and looks at him.

“You okay, Crow?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Corey waves him off, shaking the sting out of his finger. “I’m good. Good shift.”

“Fuckin’ Grabner,” Seabs mumbles, and then Jelly and Leds are changing and Seabs gives him a pat with his stick on his way back onto the ice.

Corey is still thinking about Steve Mason and his Calder Cup and his disastrous fall from grace in Columbus a couple of years ago as they board the plane back to Chicago. He takes a window seat, grabbing one of those scratchy airplane blankets on the way, ‘cause he’s still shivering a bit from the chill of the rink.

“Stop.”

Corey looks up to see Dan Carcillo putting his bag in the overhead compartment before folding into the seat next to Corey. Corey’s a little surprised. Dan’s a nice guy and he’s fitting into the team pretty well, but Corey’s shy and Dan is not, and on a team like the Hawks there are always people asking for attention. It’s one of the things Corey likes most about playing for this team, because it gives him the ability to be both surrounded by people and yet stick to himself most of the time. Doesn’t seem that Dan’s gotten the memo, though.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking.” Dan lets his head fall back against the headrest, his long hair a mess after his shower and the rush to the plane, and closes his eyes. “I’m trying to sleep and it’s loud.”

Corey raises his eyebrows. “You sat here, asshole.” The expletive feels heavy on his tongue and he almost apologizes immediately, but he’s a hockey player and that’s not what hockey players do.

“Mmm.”

Corey frowns. “And I- I didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t have to.” Dan’s head rolls towards him and Dan opens his eyes to slits. “Everyone has shitty games.”

“I didn’t have a shitty game. I’m having a shitty-” Day? Week? Sophomore season? But Corey isn’t ready to admit that out loud yet, so he settles on, “month.”

“It’s only the 8th.” Dan stretches his legs, bumping into the seat in front of them and earning himself a glare from Tazer. Dan flips him his middle finger and closes his eyes again. “Thank fucking god.”

And Corey suddenly remembers that Dan didn’t have the most stellar month of November either, that Dan perhaps had an even worse Circus Trip than Corey, himself, had. “Yeah, still lots of month to go,” he offers, and Dan smiles.

“Yep, and you’ll be good by the end of it.”

“You don't know that.” It’s out before Corey can stop himself, and he has the ridiculous urge to be a twelve year old girl and cover his mouth with his palm to keep himself from saying anything else he doesn’t want to say yet.

“I do.” Dan yawns. “’Cause we’re gonna figure out what it is that’s making you not tick right anymore.”

“Tick right?”

“Yeah. Goalie’s tick. Like a watch.”

Corey bites his lip. He’s never thought of it like that, but he supposes it’s true. Goalies have to be so precise, working off of muscle memory and living buried in a headspace that just _works_. Except, Corey’s headspace is all fucked up, now, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. He whispers, never forgetting that they’re on a plane full of all his teammates and that this is _Car Bomb_ he’s talking to, but he kinda wants to tell someone and he doesn’t know who else. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Dan reaches out a hand to pat Corey’s, and Corey pulls away, a bit reluctantly, because his palms still smell sour from the leather of his catching glove and blocker and he doesn’t want Dan to have to smell that. Dan just chuckles. “I have a plan.”

And that sounds a bit too much like the way Sharpie says _it’s gonna be awesome_ when he ropes Corey into playing pranks with him, and Corey shivers. Dan chuckles again, before pulling on Corey’s blanket and draping half of it over himself. “Go to sleep. I’m fucking tired.”  
***  
Dan doesn’t so much ask if he needs a ride home from the airport as he tells Corey that he’s taking Corey home. Corey doesn’t protest too much, because he’s a bit groggy from his nap and he normally rides with Seabs, who’s too busy at the moment trying to maneuver a still-half-asleep Duncan Keith into the passenger seat. So Corey climbs into Dan’s car and only protests when Dan stops at the Whole Foods in Corey’s neighborhood.

“What are you doing?”

Dan reaches over to pat his knee, a gleam in his eye. “I told you I have a plan, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes, but-” But Dan’s already out of the car and halfway across the parking lot before Corey climbs out and follows him. He finds Dan in the juice aisle, standing with his legs spread wide, his chin in his palm, as if he’s really contemplating his choices. He reaches for an apple juice, before pulling back and grabbing a Mango-Pineapple.

“It’s good,” he promises as he passes Corey, as if _that’s_ the issue that Corey has with this whole thing, and not the fact that Dan is apparently doing Corey’s shopping at two am after a long game.  
***  
When Corey wakes up, it’s midday and he’s feeling a little less groggy. He doesn’t remember much about the night before, except vague memories of stopping at Whole Foods and Dan following him into his apartment and digging through his fridge. Corey stumbles into his kitchen, pulling open his fridge door and staring at the carton of Mango-Pineapple juice where his orange juice should be.

“Fuck,” Corey whispers, leaning forward to dig through his fridge, except that he knows that he won’t find anything. He contemplates going to the store again, but it’s getting late, so he pours himself a glass of the Mango-Pineapple and drinks it reluctantly.

It doesn’t taste too awful, but the taste kinda lingers in his mouthguard and Corey spends half the practice trying to lose the taste rather than paying attention to the drills he’s supposed to be running. Stephane, his goalie coach, keeps sending him weird looks.

“Concentre,” Stephane tells him for the tenth time in an hour, slipping into French in frustration, and Corey growls.

“Merde,” he swears, going back into the net and letting Kaner score on a wrap-around that he’s going to be chirped about for days.

When practice ends, Corey storms into the locker room, throwing his stick at an unsuspecting trainer and stamping up to Dan, not paying much attention to the others around him. “Va te faire mettre.”

Dan looks up from untaping his socks, looking confused, but a few seats away Tazer throws them a surprised look and Corey slows his brain down long enough to switch to English. “Fuck off,” he translates, and Dan laughs.

“I thought you might like the tropical flavor.”

“Fuck you,” and Corey can’t seem to think of anything more intelligent to say, and he wipes his tongue across his teeth to try and get rid of the lingering taste, again.

Dan just shrugs, his eyes trained on Corey’s mouth. “We’ll try something else tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow-?” Corey stops, taking a deep breath. “Stay away from me.”

“Nah, I don’t think I will.”

“Salaud!” Corey swears, throwing up his hands and storming away.  
***  
Corey hopes that Dan got the message, but he doesn’t really believe it and he’s not surprised when his doorbell rings right about when he usually leaves for practice. Dan’s on the other side, holding up a glass of orange juice and a bagel, Corey’s usual breakfast foods, and Corey grunts, but takes the food and follows Dan to his car.

Dan takes a right out of his parking lot and Corey frowns. “I always take the Kennedy.”

“I know.”

Dan doesn’t turn around and twenty minutes later they’re stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Lakeshore Drive. Corey frowns. “This is why I take the Kennedy.”

Dan shrugs. “Lakeshore Drive is beautiful.”

Corey looks around, and he’s been up and down between Norfolk, Rockford, and Chicago for almost six years, but he’s never paid a lot of attention to the city before and Dan’s right. The lake is beautiful and from where they are the city is laid out in front of them. Corey can make out Michigan Avenue and the iconic Drake Hotel and he sits back, taking a bite of his bagel.

He’s feeling a bit less agreeable when they’re still stuck in traffic another twenty minutes later, staring at Navy Pier, and Corey trying not to wring Dan’s neck right there in the car. They get to the rink on time, but Corey usually gets there early to use the weight room, and his muscles feel stiff and unused all through practice.

Most of the guys do their conditioning after practice, anyway, so by the time Corey gets there, to make up for missing this morning, the only bike left is next to Kaner. Which would be fine, cause Corey really likes Kaner, except Kaner likes to _talk_ on the bike.

Corey likes to use his workouts as a time to clear his mind and try to repair that fragile headspace that clearly isn’t working right for him at the moment, so he settles himself on the bike and turns it up to a higher resistance than normal, hoping to signal passive aggressively to Kaner rather than tell him off. Except, Kaner doesn’t get it, because the minute Corey starts peddling, Kaner starts talking, about cheap beer and Jonny and whatever movie he and Jonny had watched the night before.

“It’s this Japanese animated thing, and I was like, no way, except Jonny insisted and it was in English, so no subtitles. Jonny loves artsy films with subtitles and I really don’t have the attention span for them. Wish I did. Jessica does, but I don’t and, anyways, it’s set in Medieval Japan. I know, I know, it sounds fucking boring, but I promise it’s not. You know, I’ll bring it in tomorrow, let you borrow it.”

Corey sighs and tries to tune him out.  
***  
Their next game is in Minnesota and Corey walks into the locker room, making a beeline to his normal seat beside Razor. Except his stuff isn’t where it’s supposed to be. He goes to ask the trainers what the fuck is going on, when he sees the empty stall next to Sharpie and sighs. He had hoped, after he had bitched Dan out for the Kaner incident, that Dan would have dropped this whole thing, except apparently he’s raised the stakes to bribing equipment managers to fuck with the feng shui of the entire locker room.

This is Dan’s worst idea yet. There’s a reason why goalies sit next to each other, because they understand their more intricate equipment and watch out not to get in each other’s way. Sitting next to Sharpie is completely different. It’s a little louder on this side of the room and everything looks strange from here, the angles, the conversations, they all look a bit like the Dali paintings he saw the last time his mom was in town and dragged him to the Art Institute.

He also keeps banging Sharpie’s elbow and, on more than one occasion, Sharpie hits him with his stick as he’s taping it. Corey sighs, dropping to the floor to do up the straps on his leg pads. He sets his iPod on the floor next to his hip, as he always does, but when Seabs calls Sharpie from the other side of the room, Sharpie steps on his headphones and cuts clear through the chord with his skate blade. He apologizes, profusely, and promises to buy Corey a new pair, a better pair, but the damage is done and they win 4-3 on the back of Emery’s 27 saves.

On the plane home, Dan sits next to him again and Corey glares. “Why are you doing this?”

Dan shrugs. “I know it’s hard not to play.”

Corey scoffs. Dan has no idea what it’s like to be a goaltender, to deal with the pressure and the inconsistency and the need to be absolutely perfect, because one bad shift from Dan could very well just mean one bad shift for Dan, but a bad minute for Corey could mean a goal or more against for the entire team. Except, Dan’s giving him one of those measured looks, the ones that make Corey think that Dan understands a lot more than he lets on. Dan sighs and leans closer to him, his voice low.

“Look, I know that goalies have their routines. And routines can be good. They can be important. But, sometimes they can get in the way, too. Sometimes you have to be a bit creative and build new routines when the old ones aren’t working right. I did it, over the summer. It helped.”

Corey stops. He remembers that Dan had to reinvent himself this year, too, because the Hawks needed a tough guy, someone to look after Kaner and Sharpie and Hoss, but they didn’t want an asshole. Corey had never really thought about what the move from Phili to Chicago must have been like for Dan, but he assumes that Stan and Coach Q had sat Dan down and told him that he could no longer be the League’s biggest enforcer, that the Hawks organization expects more out of him, and Corey suddenly respects Dan a lot more, but, still-

“I’ve had my routines since I was eight years old.” When he crawled into his parents’ bed in footed pajamas and begged them to let him quit being a forward and chase after Patrick Roy, but he doesn’t add that part.

“I know.” Dan is still looking at him, his eyes bright as he keeps staring at Corey. “But they’re not working anymore, are they?”

Corey wants to argue, because goalies live and die on their routines. They’re there so that he can focus on his training, rather than on what he should eat for breakfast or what route he should take to the rink, and he’s not sure that he could get through the day without them.

Dan sighs. “Think about it.” He dumps his iPod into Corey’s lap. “And here. Sorry ‘bout your headphones.”

“I-”

Dan waves him off, settling back into his own chair and closing his eyes. “I’m just gonna sleep anyway.”

Corey wants to protest again, except the whole thing really is Dan’s fault and Dan should have to pay for it a bit. So, he settles in his own chair, starting up Dan’s iPod where he left it off. He’s expecting heavy metal or Rolling Stones or P. Diddy or something, and he’s surprised when he gets a mix of ‘70s American female folk singers. Corey turns to Dan to ask him about it, but Dan’s already asleep.  
***  
The next day, Dan doesn’t try anything. He doesn’t even say much to Corey except a quick ‘thank you’ when Corey hands back his iPod. The day goes pretty much the same as it always had. Corey gets up early, drinks his orange juice and eats half a bagel. He’s one of the first ones at the rink, and it’s just him, Seabs, and Tazer in the weight room, so he takes his warm-up run in quiet. He goes home, makes a simple sandwich, and takes his nap. Except, he feels restless and he really did spend most of the night thinking about what Dan had said.

At about eight, he grabs his keys and that stupid movie that Kaner had insisted he borrow, and drives to Dan’s place. He hesitates at the door, halfway to knocking. He knows the guys do this all the time, come over unannounced, but Corey never does and he suddenly feels self-conscious. He’s not entirely sure that Dan wants him here and he’s pretty sure that Dan has no desire to see this weird Japanese movie, but Dan had agreed to help, so Corey knocks, quickly.

Dan opens the door, clearly surprised to see him, and Corey holds up the movie. “You were right.”

Dan grins and steps back to let him in. “I usually am.”

Dan’s apartment is exactly how Corey would have pictured it, if he had ever spared a second thought for what Dan’s apartment might look like. It’s very modern, all stainless steel and black accents and very clean. Dan leads him into the living room and there’s a 60-inch plasma TV and an L-shaped, black leather monstrosity that fits the room perfectly and is comfortable as fuck and, once Corey sinks into it, he never wants to leave.

Dan disappears for a moment, before reappearing with beers and Corey takes one gratefully. He may need it, as Dan takes the DVD and, reading the title, laughs. “ _Princess Mononoke_?”

Corey shrugs. “Kaner recommended it, when I got stuck listening to him whine for an hour on the bike the other day. So, you know, it’s your fault and I take no responsibility.”

The movie is actually okay. About halfway through, he looks over at Dan, who’s ensconced in the corner of the L, dressed in sweatpants and tank-top and looking utterly enthralled by the movie. Dan must feel his eyes on him, because he looks over and grins, spreading his legs so that their knees brush. “Not bad for a Kaner movie, eh?”

“His sisters must have told him about it.” And Corey grins, because maybe changing his routines isn’t the worst thing in the world.  
***  
Corey had fallen asleep before the movie ended. His bedtime on non-game days is usually ten o’clock and his body pretty much falls asleep like clockwork. Dan didn’t wake him ‘til the movie was over, and then had taken advantage of Corey’s groggy state to get him to agree to go shopping after practice the next day.

Walking down Michigan Avenue with Dan and Ray Emery, Corey promises himself never to fall asleep in Dan’s presence again. Corey knows that his problems are his own, and aren’t Razor’s fault, but Razor is still benefiting from Corey’s misfortune and so Corey doesn’t really think that Razor should be part of his recovery. Dan, on the other hand, seems unable to shop without Razor at his side, pointing out shirts and jeans that are more expansive than Corey’s whole wardrobe.

Although, Corey’s wardrobe is worth a little more now, too. He’s tried on more clothes in the past two hours than he has in his entire life. More than once he put up a fight, but every time Dan just gives him _you agreed to this_ looks, which Corey thinks is a little unfair since he doesn't exactly remember agreeing to this. Plus, every time it happens, Razor gives them his own looks, as if he thinks he’s in on some great secret that even Dan and Corey aren’t in on yet.

All this means that Corey is now the proud owner of a pair of jeans tight enough to make his ass uncomfortable, a t-shirt of the type that he’s only ever seen Razor and Ryan Seacrest wear, and a beanie that Dan actually says is “adorable” and which he thinks makes him look like a snowboarder wanna be. Which is stupid, cause being a hockey player is so much cooler than being a snowboarder. The look Dan gives him makes him blush, though, so he takes off the tags and wears it out of the store.

He’s not paying much attention to where they’re going when Dan stops in front of the Tribune Tower. “This is us. See ya tomorrow.”

Corey thinks he might be talking to him, but then Razor gives them both quick hugs and waves down a taxi. Corey takes a step to follow him when Dan’s fingers close around his wrist and pull him through the crowd and into the Tribune Tower. Most of the crowd is huddled in the doorway, and by the time they get inside it’s mostly quiet, their footsteps echoing in the wide marbled hallway. Corey looks around, then stops and crosses his arms, because he’s already been dragged shopping today and he’s all for changing up some of his routines but this is getting a little ridiculous.

“What are we doing here?”

“We’re recording my radio show. Come on, we’re a little late. I lost track of time in the Levi store.” He raises an eyebrow at Corey, as if that was Corey’s fault, and Corey frowns.

“Your show isn’t ‘til Sunday.”

“I record it today, it airs on Sunday.” Dan stops, and it’s his turn to frown. “How’d you know that?”

Corey shrugs. “It’s in the newsletter.”

“No one reads the newsletter.”

Corey’s cheeks go red. “ _I_ read the newsletter.”

“Huh.” Dan’s staring at him, and Corey starts to feel uncomfortable, so he shuffles his feet and nods his head towards where he thinks the studios must be.

“You said we were late?”

“Yeah, right.” Dan shakes his head and leads the way. Corey doesn't know much about radio, but the studio’s less impressive than he thought it’d be. It’s really just a desk and two microphones and an audio board pressed up against one of the walls. Dan’s producer introduces himself and shows Corey around a little bit.

“Hey, you listened to that playlist? The one on my iPod?”

Corey looks up from the switches and remembers that he never did ask Dan about that. “Yeah.”

“That’s what we’re talking about today. Jared can get you a mic if you wanna be part of the show.”

Dan’s looking hopeful, but Corey barely likes to talk to the press after a game and the idea of being on the radio for all of Chicagoland is a scarier prospect than he’d admit to. It must show on his face, because Dan’s producer, who Corey guesses is Jared, pats him on the shoulder. “I could use some help on the audio board, if Corey’d like to help there.”

“That’d be great.” Corey grins, because he likes how mechanical the audio board is. It’s all very simple, and Corey thinks that, in another life, he’d make a good engineer.  
***  
The radio show airs Sunday, before the game, and Corey tunes his iPhone into WGN to listen to it. It sounds pretty good, although he assumes that Jared touched it up in post-production before it went to air. He’s on the floor in front of his stall, stretching, when he feels a body behind him. He glances over his shoulder to see Dan sitting on Corey’s bench, dressed in a suit because his shoulder’s still acting up and he’s going to spend the game trying to looking presentable in the Hawks box.

“Listening to the radio show?” And he actually looks a little nervous, so Corey nods and holds out the earbuds. Dan shakes his head. “I don’t really like to hear myself talk.”

Corey raises an eyebrow. “Coulda fooled me.”

“Fuck you.” Dan kicks the edge of Corey’s pads and stands up to go, before stopping, his hands in his pockets and still looking a little nervous. “It sound okay?”

Corey nods. “Yeah. Pretty good, actually.”

Dan smiles. “Good, good.” He grins, nodding to his left. “Try to keep Kaner from listening to it. He’s just jealous that I’m getting more attention than him.”

Corey laughs, before putting his headphones back in his ears and watching Dan leave the room before anyone else can stop him and give him crap about the show.  
***  
When the game is over, the team is buzzing with energy even though it’s nearly eleven o’clock on a Sunday night. It’s not much different than any other home win, although this one was a decisive 4-2 victory against the Flames and the team was feeding off a festive crowd dressed in Santa hats and Blackhawks jerseys. Even though Corey, himself, didn’t play a minute of the game, he’s feeling happy and flushed with being on top of the League and the holiday season and Sharpie’s new baby.

He feels good enough that he agrees when Dan comes up to him half-way through the second Lil’ Wayne song that Tazer’s making them all listen to and asks Corey to join the team for an after-game meal of beer and pasta. Usually Corey begs off, because even on game days he doesn’t like to stay up too late, but Dan gives him a knowing look, says something about routines and how Corey’s supposed to be breaking them, and Corey finds it’s easier to just give in than argue.

Dan drives, afraid that Corey’s going to chicken out and go home sometime between when they leave the UC and the ten minute drive to Little Italy. Corey spends the drive with one eye on Downtown Chicago as they go by, the city always a little bit more beautiful after a win, and one eye on Dan who, despite insisting that his shoulder is fine, winces on every left-hand turn. Corey worries, more than he probably should.

The restaurant has a room set up for them in the back, and it’s late enough that not many people are here besides the regulars who are used to seeing the Hawks here after a home game. It’s a bit of a routine, for the team to come here after a win, and Corey’s starting to think that adding a few more of the team routines into his own wouldn’t be a bad thing. He spends the meal watching his teammates: Duncan worrying over Seabs’ head after that Bourque hit, Jelly trying to teach poor Leds how to say “I would like the manicotti” in Swedish, and Kaner reaching over Tazer’s plate to steal a meatball, even though Kaner had ordered the exact same thing. Tazer simply drops another meatball onto Kaner’s plate, earning him a blinding smile, and Corey has to smile at all of it. It’s been a good December, despite it all, and for the first time in a long time Corey feels like himself.

He leans over, speaking low enough that only Dan can hear him. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see, just, come with me.” He doesn’t wait for Dan to answer, just gets up and throws a $20 on the table, makes his quick excuses, and waits by the car. By the time Dan gets there, Corey is dancing on the balls of his feet, cold in his long-sleeve t-shirt, and Dan looks at him, half-apologetic and half-intrigued.

“What-?”

Corey holds out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

“It’s my car.”

“And your shoulder hurts. Me les donner.”

Dan shrugs and throws him the keys, climbing into the passenger seat. Corey has realized, over the past week or so, that Dan tends not to argue with him when he speaks in French, and he smiles as he gets in the car and starts it, rubbing his hands together until the heat turns on.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“To test something.”

“Asshole,” Dan grumbles, fumbling with the radio dial and settling on the most obnoxious soft rock Christmas station he can find, presumably to annoy Corey into telling him where they’re going. But, as they pull into the UC, Dan’s expression softens and he doesn’t argue as they get out of the car and make their way back to the locker room.

The UC is quiet, their fans long since gone, and there are only a few lights on for the cleaning staff. Corey doesn’t turn anymore on, just pulls his skates from his stall and puts them on quickly. Dan grunts a little as he does up his own, his shoulder clearly aching, and Corey feels bad enough to kneel and help him, pulling the laces tight until his fingers burn. He finishes the knot, then stills, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Hey.” Dan’s voice is low, his fingers touching Corey’s wrist gently.

Corey glances up, smiling softly. “I’m good. I- I feel good.” He bites his lip. “I just need to make sure.”

“I know. I just want to try one last thing-” And then Dan leans forward, his lips pressed lightly, tentatively against Corey’s, as if asking permission and Corey can’t deny him, not when Dan’s been right about everything over the last week, and he parts his lips, accepting Dan in and groaning. Dan makes the smallest choking sound deep in his throat, shaking his head and pulling back just far enough to press their foreheads together. “This is out of the routine, yeah?”

It sounds strangely vulnerable, as if there’s a part of Dan that worries that _Corey_ is the asshole, that Corey wanders around the UC kissing Kaner and Sharpie and Seabs every night, and Corey smiles, pressing forward for a quick close-mouthed kiss. “This is the most different yet.”

“Good.” Dan kisses him again, his lips warm and pliant and Corey’s whole damn body feels strung out and he shifts, trying to adjust himself without alerting Dan to just how good this feels. Except, apparently, he can’t hide much, ‘cause Dan pulls away, grinning. “Come on, let’s get out on the ice.”

Corey pauses, but then Dan shifts his hips and Corey can see that he’s as aroused as Corey is, and Corey files that away for later, getting up off his knees and offering his hand. He stops long enough to take a deep breath before stepping out onto the ice and, for the first time in thirteen days, everything fades away. The seats and the low lights, the smell of sweat and blood that permeates the boards, the chill in the air; none of it matters. He feels himself center, sinking into that headspace that he’s missed so much and he stops in the middle of the crease without having to look or feel his way there.

It feels as wonderful as it did thirteen days ago, and, for a moment, he wants everything to go back to exactly as it was, when it was simple and easy and Corey never had to think about anything but stopping pucks. But then he looks up, searching for Dan and finding him leaning against the bench, grinning at him. Corey grins back and decides that, perhaps, he doesn’t want to go back to those old routines, not all of them anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to OpheliaRising for a wonderful prompt. I was in the middle of writing something else when Corey had this long streak of not playing, and I just had to write this. I hope it works and that you like it. Happy Yuletide!


End file.
